you know, on nights like tonight, I wonder just how I fucking survived seven solid months of this shit. seven months of clutching my thighs together for dear life... seven months of dreading standing up for fear it would entail a mad sprint to the nearest bathroom... seven months of lying in exactly the same position and taking frequent naps in hopes it might make the bleeding lessen only slightly... seven months of growing progressively paler and paler, and being able to stay awake less and less until I went to bed every night at 10pm regardless of when I had to be up... and seven months of feeling like my uterus was trying to gnaw it's way violently from my body. seven fucking months, the whole time thinking that I was going to die.

and so now it feels a bit odd to think of anything as an ordeal, really, after surviving that. but the funny thing is, I would rather be back there, in the midst of that seven months, just to be close to my friends again.

and I'd go through worse than that just to talk to you on the phone for more than ten minutes or more than once a week.